You are browsing the archive for 2011 October.

So I have the gang over for dinner one night because my parents are in town and want to meet the people they’ve been hearing so much about. My parents We make a lot of nice things to eat. A fonduta of young Pecorino, hazelnuts, thyme, and honey. Guacamole and frijoles negros. Eggplant parmigiana. Arroz a la Valenciana. I also do a banana bread because it’s my mission to educate my deprived Italian friends on the wonders of American baked goods. Piercarlo simply can’t imagine bread made of bananas, and neither can the rest so it’s what those ignorant mofos are getting for dessert. But then, as the dinner hour grows near, I soften up and decide to pick up a crostata on the way home from the office. Because I’m having a memory issue these days, I scribble the word on the back of my hand. Laugh all you want, but it’s the only thing that’s keeping me fed and clothed. Notepads and phone alarms are useless in the face of this recent memory lapse. When I write things I need to remember on my hand, the word winks up at me as I type, and gets further lodged into my brain when others ask: What’s that on your hand? And it works; after an afternoon of typing and listening to Old Man Antonio rant, I remember to drop by the bakery.

Bar Girasole, where E goes to write and OLD MAN ANTONIO apparently spends every hour of his retirement. Modern day. Terracina, Italy. E is sitting at her usual table, working on Chapter 28 of her novel and drinking a strawberry-flavored hot chocolate. OLD MAN ANTONIO enters the bar.

The usual hours and the usual parking spot and the usual teenage boys behind the bar who take bets on what flavor of fruit juice I’ll be drinking today; if I’ll accept the aperitivo or no; if I’ll get any writing done while Old Man Antonio lectures me on exactly what my problem is (I have many). The caffè has become a physiologist’s bell for me and I am a salivating dog; without it, without my usual routine of street-facing table, fruit juice in a tall glass on ice with a straw, the white noise of espresso machine and old man nonsense, I do not write. Every day from 5 to 8. The undisputed bright spot of my day.

But sometimes, I roll up to the caffè – walk through the doors, take off my hat and sunglasses – and I see this: